Mutable Deeds
by Nautical Acronym
Summary: 1800's England. Chell is as trapped to the house as the earth beneath it. Wheatley's just a chimney sweep about to cause more trouble than anyone thought possible. Johnson Manor was already in a state, but now? Well, it's never going to be the same again.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Okay, so I wasn't really going to write this: I'm just not very good at multi-chapter fics and I wasn't sure if I could really get it down the way I wanted it, but as I sat at my computer clacking away on my keyboard this is what came out. LOOK! A CHAPTER! With a working title.

So this goes back to a conversation on NQN's livestream where I brought up a story idea. Let's set Portal 2 in the 1800's! I didn't have anything fleshed out, but I had a general story percolating in my brain. It wasn't until **super-nikoe** suggested Wheatley as a chimney sweep that everything fell into place. Plus, if you haven't seen it yet, there is a picture by **emuisemu **of Wheatley as the chimney sweep and it almost made me die. I love it and it really pushed me to actually starting on this project.

Please forgive me for major exposition here. I was aiming to invoke a certain style which I may or may not have achieved.

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**Mutable Deeds**

Chapter 1:

Johnson Manor was a proud and distinguished household. Or at least it had been when Mr. Johnson himself had resided there, but after his untimely death there was a great deal of confusion as to who the property belonged to and as the years passed with no discernible claim the once proud home fell into a state of disrepair.

Even now, though the house was certainly being lived in, it was still a spectacle of workman and scaffolding. And, had Chell ever had the pleasure of standing atop one of the small, rolling hills some ways from the once splendid manor, she would have been able to see in greater scope the extent of the repairs and the piecemeal look the building had adopted after so many attempts to set it right. Except that Chell wasn't allowed outside: that was the first rule of working at Johnson Manor, but it certainly wasn't the last. For Chell, who had resided there all her life, the rules were ingrained and she did her best to avoid the harsh punishments and reprimands of her employer. Her first month in its halls had been enough to teach her the way of things despite her stubborn nature. Though she had only been a child then the rules were fixed; her age having no bearing on their applicability.

She took a moment in her daily routine to press her palm against the warmth of one of the dining room windows. She had already been up for several hours and it was only now that the sun was rising; heating the pane and delivering with its warmth the promise of a beautiful summer day. The English countryside had seen too few of them of late and although Chell could never truly enjoy them, she spent what time she could pressed firmly against the attics slanted vents breathing in the fresh air of the fields beyond or standing as she was now; looking for anywhere the aching beauty of the outside could creep and spill into the eerie stillness of the building.

She awoke in the darkest hours of the morning along with the other servants of the household and with them made quick work of the morning chores. Lighting the fires, preparing her lady's table and delivering that same lady's first cup of the day was all achieved in a system as efficient as clockwork.

Chell was always agreeable with the other servants of the household; however, none stayed long enough for any close friendships or permanent bonds. In fact, other servants came and went so quickly it hardly seemed proper, but if there were any rumours or scandal concerning the place Chell was in no position to know of them. She hadn't any friends and, as stated before, she wasn't allowed outside. If these two unfortunate circumstances were not enough to isolate her there was a third which always sealed the deal on matters of relationships: her inability to speak. It was a discomfort in most society, even amongst the working classes, and so she was often ignored in favour of more tolerable company and the pleasant pursuit of conversation.

As the sun climbed a steady path into the sky she stood patiently beside the breakfast table awaiting the lady of the house.

The lady herself went by the name of Caroline Gladish; a slender woman whose sharp, yellow eyes could mock you from fifty paces. Though she was not terribly old (forty at the latest) her hair had prematurely grayed some years before leaving it a striking silver with no hint of its previous dark lustre. Her story was a sad one, though it was hard to have any sympathy for the sharp tongued woman. Miss Gladish was an American heiress who had married young and, after moving to England with her husband, had widowed a short time after. She had no sons or daughters and appeared to be in no mind to marry again. Chell could hardly believe the woman had married in the first seeing as her cruelty lent her features a soured look. The only portrait of her departed husband hung in the living room above the fireplace and in it the late Douglas Rattmann stood next to his severe though beautiful wife. From it one could easily tell that he had been in love.

Miss Gladish's fashion was as strict as her words and while conventional dresses demanded a certain amount of frivolity hers were always lacking in some key aesthetic that Chell could never exactly explain. Her dresses reflected her practicality along with the severity for which she was known. Overall, Miss Gladish was an unsettling woman, though Chell was used to her taunts and could for the most part ignore the barbs directed her way. Unfortunately, other servants were not so well equipped to handle the moods and penchants of her employer.

As per usual the woman herself appeared in the doorway, observing the scene before her in a way that implied that their work was sorely lacking; however, Chell had learned that it was what Miss Gladish didn't say that proved you were working well and the fact that she took her usual seat without comment was as good a start as if she had come in smiling and thanked them all graciously for their hard work.

Chell did as all servants do and stood aside, head down and hands folded. Some might have thought that Chell was content with the way of things as she never left to find some other employment, but had she the ability Chell would have left a very long time ago. She exhibited no symptoms of the imprisoned, but that's exactly what she was. Back before Chell had any true memories, her parents (Japanese immigrants who had lost everything in their gamble in their move to England) had begged upon the mercy of Mr. Rattman and sold her to him in the hopes of saving their daughter from the streets of London. Why he had accepted she had never understood, but he had and went on to include her as a part of the estate. She was as much owned by Miss Gladish as the shingles and the floorboards were. No one had questioned the legality of this, the issue having never been raised, but as Chell was not an English subject there was little she could do and few that would help her.

It was the decision of Miss Gladish that Chell should receive no wages for her work (_You would not pay the piano for its song or the railings for their support_) and though she was provided the basics for her living such as proper shoes and clothing she had no means to own the small things which would have made life infinitely more bearable. A copy of the paper when it was available, the small candies which the other maids had purchased from the travelling vendors that sometime wandered through, and the small pictures they stuffed beneath their mattresses and gazed upon for hours would have all went a long way in making life seem kind. Chell too had a picture stuffed beneath her mattress- one which had been left behind by a previous servant. It was a crinkled thing with fading ink; an illustration from one of the daily papers. The image was recognizable and tantalising: a piece of sweet and unbearably soft looking cake.

She spent more time gazing at it then she would care to admit.

The day continued on as usual from breakfast. There were sarcastic words, taunts and jibes. The new kitchen girl cried herself out in the water closet and Chell worked and cleaned, using the servant stairways tucked behind the walls; she went about life just as she always did and, she was sure, would forever do. She crept from room to room making as little noise as possible and moved about the place with a determination which other servants had described as unnatural.

All was going quite normal even when the sunny day gave way to a thunderstorm and the whole house shook with the force of its blows. Everything was exactly as it had been; the same for the last twenty years just as it would be for the next. Yes, it was all going so plain and ordinary right up until one singular and unpredictable event occurred that wasn't very normal at all.

In the late hours of the day, when the sun had already bid farewell, a shuddering _crash_ sent the residents of Johnson Manor into an uproar.

From then on, nothing was ever the same again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

No one could fathom how it had happened.

There were no other homes for miles around and Bristol (where he claimed to have last been) was even further away. The absolute absurdity of his ending up on their rooftop, of all places, seemed rather plain and understandable when compared to the bizarre fact that his recollection of getting there involved an updraft, a boxer from Swindon and, as he put it, "a large chunk of time where absolutely nothing happened". Sufficed to say, everyone was very confused by the thing, especially the girl who had been startled awake by the sound of the roof cracking and had looked up to see a pair of long, gangly legs sprouting from the ceiling.

The entire house was a whirlwind of activity after that. Some of the girls screamed and cried at waking up to such a sight while other more industrious sorts attempted to reach the poor soul firmly lodged in the shingles. Chell had needed to stop old Mrs Turre who had decided that swatting the legs with her broom was a sure way to get them going. It did work in one sense: the legs at first had seemed content to just hang there looking slightly forlorn and very nervous; carefully stretching out to find anything to land upon. However, once the introduction of the broom transpired the legs went slightly round the bend. They kicked and thrashed, flailing with impressive reach. Whoever this person was they had to be an oddity of nature , Chell mused, as she had never seen anyone with so much leg or so large of feet in all her life. It was as if some gawky giant had been playing a game of hopscotch and overestimated the jump.

Some of the male servants had arrived after hearing all the commotion, but kept their distance from the kicking limbs. A young lad (Tommy, if she was remembering right) was trying very hard not to laugh. She could make out a voice somewhere above the roof, but it was drowned to a whisper by the whooping howl of the wind.

Very cautiously she moved forward, dodging some of the blows that would have smarted had they hit their mark and placed her hands on the man's legs attempting to hold them steady. His first reaction to her hands on him was to squirm again, but she held tight making his limbs remain still with all her strength.

"There's a girl!" one of the men cried, "I'll go knock the lady up. No doubt she's heard the commotion; wondering what all the fuss about. Poor man's going to be up there for a while; can't do much with the wind blowin' can we." With that he set off back down the attic stairs.

From above there came an audible knock as whoever was out there rapped their knuckles on the roof,

"Hello?" she heard him cry above the wind, "Is anyone in there? I could really use a hand right now and it's um… well, it's_ fairly_ urgent. I just- if you could just tap once to, you know, let me know if you're going to be sticking around a bit and maybe- maybe help me down. Two taps if it's a 'no'. You know, sorry mate, can't help, on your own. You know two taps for that." He was quiet for a moment, "Or three if you have a plan to get me down. Cor, that would be brilliant! Yeah! Three taps for that and maybe four… four if you don't have a plan. Four taps: no plan… right. Although, just saying, I would very much appreciate the second and third option. Or was it the first and the fourth? The ones in favour of the whole getting me off the roof thing; those options, in particular, would be tremendous."

She formulated her own idea.

She looked to the other girls still crowded around and motioned them towards the attic door.

"You're not going to try pulling him in are you?" a blue eyed girl mumbled looking from Chell up to the pair of legs, "Were all in our nightgowns! It's just not proper!"

"Come girl, the man needs to get inside somehow." One of the men said, although it looked as though he himself had only just realized he was standing amongst twelve young ladies all in their night attire. He blushed and motioned them to the attic door. They all left rather quickly leaving behind Tommy who seemed more content to snicker into his hands then do anything useful.

"Right, so… I haven't felt any tapping going on, just a really long _holdin_g sort of sensation." The man above said between other things which were lost to the wind.

Chell glanced back at the ceiling. It was barely keeping him up really and she was certain that if she gave his legs a firm tug that the portion of roof holding the rest of him was sure to give way.

Deciding on her course of action she pulled.

"What?" the man above cried out, "What are you…?" She tugged again, "Oh, oh! You're pulling me in. Brilliant! Alright, alright, just… just be sure you catch me."

She gave another sharp tug and the boards bent.

"That's it! That's it!" The man cried out. Some of the shingles cracked and fell inside, "That's not it! _That's not it_!" The surrounding boards groaned and splintered sending the man straight down atop of Chell who did her best to ease his fall but was unprepared for just how heavy he really was. "Catch me, catch me, _catch me_!" he cried, but he was far too much and they both went crashing to the floor in a plume of splintered wood, dust and rain.

Chell ended up on her back with a pair of sore elbows for her work while the not inconsiderable weight of the man from the roof pressed down upon her. She could feel every movement he made as he looked about himself; gaining some sense of the world he had, quite literally, fallen into. When he finally realized that the soft floor beneath him was not actually floor, his wet, blonde head swivelled towards her; his eyes the palest blue and owl like behind a pair of thick spectacles. He went to speak, stopped then shut his mouth with an audible snap. His Adams apple bobbed as he observed the girl trapped very surely beneath him.

"Are you alright, sir?" Tommy asked, grabbing hold of his elbow and attempting to hoist him. The man, for his part, was still staring at Chell as if _she_ were the one who had just blown in on a wind storm and crashed through the roof. He sputtered and blinked before his ears turned an alarming shade of red. He threw himself to his legs in a panic and the boy by his elbow stumbled back.

Apparently Chell had been correct in her initial assessment of him: he _was_ a giant. His head knocked the ceiling just next to where the rain was steadily pouring in.

He was clad in an unremarkable suit which was poorly patched in the knees and elbows. On first inspection she would have said his outfit was black, but the murky streaks coming off of him caused her some doubt. What was clear was that this man who had been rained on and blown about through half of England was somehow still covered from head to toe in chimney soot. She looked down at her cream nightdress to discover it coated in the same black slag.

"And you miss, you alright?" The boy asked helping her up as well. She nodded, thankful for the hand. Their visitor was still standing next to his hole and shivering terribly; wringing his large, knuckled hands. A muddy puddle was forming just below his oxfords.

"Oh, I didn't mean to do that." He said, his teeth chattering away, "Look, I know rooftops, bit of a roof professional, really. Good at all things related to… rooftops and their…flat bits. And this one, well this one was just unsound, really; could have gone at any time."

"Is that so?" An icy voice interrupted the small gathering.

"He blew in from the roof, Ma'am. I've never seen anything like it." Tommy cried excitedly, but her severe look stopped him from making any other comments and he was instructed to leave the room in a voice which brooked no argument and which promised pain should he dawdle.

She was dressed as if she had been up for hours and her hair was pulled up and away in a respectable manner. Chell realised rather belatedly that her own was still down and shamefully loose.

"What do we have here?" she purred, her yellow eyes pierced the man and roved over him in a fashion of supreme distaste. She seemed to find every bit of him an affront and where his size would have intimidated most Miss Gladish was a woman not easily daunted. Her eyes slid to the front of Chell's nightdress noting its marred colour with a disgusted twist of her pointed lips.

"Ah, evening Ma'am!" he went to tip his hat before realizing that it was most likely miles away and stuck up a tree, "Ah, right_, wind_." He muttered giving a wide, beaming smile to the severely unimpressed Miss Gladish, "Mister Stephen Wheatley, at your service. Sorry for just dropping in… quite literally. I uh, was just blowing by and apparently got a little stuck. Thankfully your girl here," he looked to her and noticed for himself her dishevelled state. His ears went a wild pink once more and he turned back to Miss Gladish uncomfortably, "Clever girl here; she pulled me in."

"My name is Caroline Gladish and this girl is _anything _but clever."

Mr. Wheatley's smile faltered,

"I-I'm very sorry" he stuttered.

"As you should be." Miss Gladish cut in although where one may have expected her to shout or rage her words were clipped and cool, "You have broken my roof, sullied my floors and sent this household into an uproar. What was your business on my roof?"

"Nothing! Nothing, Ma'am! I just got caught up on it was all. As I said, blowing by… I think." His face creased for a moment in concentration, "I actually can't recall. I just, look, it was an unfortunate landing. If anything, we should all just be very glad that no one was hurt. All is fine, we're all safe."

If it were possible the woman's face seemed even more sour than usual.

"You must be very foolish," she said, "as you look and sound rather foolish. Those two traits are often accurate gauges in assessing an individual. Did you know that?"

For Mr. Wheatley's part he looked certain that he had just been insulted, but if there was a proper response it was failing him miserably.

"Girl, you will take _Mister Wheatley_ and have him cleaned up. He is making a mess of my home." Her nose crinkled in a look of supreme distaste as she turned once more to Mr. Wheatley, "You, will be staying the night-"

"Ah, thank you, ma'am. Thank you-"

"And tomorrow morning we will be discussing your options on compensating me for the damages I have incurred by your… _blowing about_."

"Of course." He said though his face gave way to what he thought of the idea. He had only known Miss Gladish for all of a minute and already he looked eager to be anywhere else.

Miss Gladish took a moment to eye Chell's own state of dress before adding, "Do you not have any decency, girl? You look a careless strumpet. Get dressed."

Mr. Wheatley's ears flushed once more though he seemed steadfast in his decision to not look at her if he could help it. He muttered an apology and followed Miss Gladish down the attic stairs.

Chell stood still for a moment observing the damages from the night's events. The rain was beating a steady rhythm on the floor, the debris and the soot were creating a muddy concoction under her feet and her nightclothes were absolutely filthy.

She was not a creature accustomed to embarrassment no matter how often Miss Gladish attempted to make her one. Her hair was always up and proper when in company, her clothing always pressed and clean. She was not vain, but diligent in her cleanliness as she was in all the other aspects of her life. To know that Mr. Wheatley, and even the other men of the house, had seen her dressed in so little and with her hair so free was a source of shame; keen and unfair.

She kicked a bucket under the drizzling hole that Mr. Wheatley had left behind and searched her drawers for something proper.

…

The night had been filled with interest. She had gone about the business of tending to his needs, but Mr. Wheatley seemed aware of how poorly he looked set against the backdrop of Johnson Manor. He gave his footprints and soot covered pants harsh looks as if they were misbehaving children and him a parent quite unable to control them.

After his bath and a hot cup of tea he sat next to the fireplace looking far more human than he had upstairs. He had a healthier colour about him which made his unnatural thinness slightly less worrying. Another contributing factor to his healthy glow was that Miss Gladish had left some time before. With her departure their new guest seemed far more at ease, allowing his long limbs to stretch out towards the fire and his shoulders to fall into the soft backing of the chair.

The clothing which had been found for him was all that was available. On his lanky limbs the ensemble fit so poorly that the effect was rather comical even if it was quite poor of her to think so. The legs of his pants ended mid-calf and his shirt rode up about the same, exposing the strong but thin muscles of his forearms. The shirt was far too tight around his shoulders, but the front of it hung from his skinny frame.

His height was more than a bit disquieting. Although she could not affix a number to it she could tell his was considerable. Chell was of an average height amongst the girls but placed next to him the crown of her head only reached a place just below his shoulder. Had he some other disposition she may have been more wary of him, but he was meek and shy; a sense of apology hanging about him which eased her mind and made him far more likable than she would have been originally inclined to think.

He spoke, frequently, Chell realized, and about anything which struck him. It was refreshing, she had to admit; to have a friendly voice speaking to her as if the conversation was not entirely one sided. He seemed inclined to fill any and all silence not worried in the slightest if she had no response for him. He took it well and chattered on.

"Of all the rooftops in England!" he said, "After I met that frankly frightening lady of yours I was resigned to it, of course; just my luck isn't it? I mean not that I expected anything else really; smashing through the roof and all. If I _had _landed in a house full of smiling faces offering me tea and biscuits I would have had to step back and say, 'right, what's all this business then?' But this! Oh, this is fantastic, truly lovely." He sipped his third cup of tea and bit fiercely into one of the few remaining biscuits.

"You're very quiet." He said around the biscuit.

She was surprised. She had assumed that he knew of her condition as he appeared to find no problem with her conversation. She wasn't sure what that said about Mr. Wheatley, but she couldn't help but think it a good thing.

She gave a small shake of her head.

"Ah, come on! Nothing to be shy of, luv. I mean, understandable you might be tired after having been woken up by ol' Wheatley, but-"

She shook her head again. She was not a lady in distress, nor was she infirmed and she would not act it. Very directly, with a clear, indifferent look on her face (there was no sadness in this; there was no pain) she indicated the column of her throat then made a slicing motion through the air.

He seemed to grasp her meaning immediately.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" She frowned at him in warning. She willed him to understand that she was not inclined to pity. He understood her intention rather quickly saying, "Right, of course, you probably hear that a lot; must get tiring."

She gave another small nod, but an impish grin was dancing on her face. He smiled back and she could not help but think well of him. It startled her to say the least. She was the practical sort, not prone to the distractions of other girls and accustomed to relying on one's self for both company and amusement. Friendship was unlikely as so many came and went, love was out of the question; an impossibility in her situation. Even friendly and kind Mr. Wheatley, who was an offer of something that she didn't fully grasp, was a distraction too good and far too great. Her life was already set; as unalterable as the stars or the sun and, besides, she would never see him again.

Against her better judgment she let herself observe the thin length of his nose and the ease of his smile. She listened intently to his wittering voice and watched his long hands as they punctuated his statements and curved around his teacup.

In a day he would be gone and she would be upstairs breathing through the slats and touching the dining room glass. Nothing would change.

_You're a fool._

He spoke for some time afterwards and once he was off to bed she went about tidying the area which they had occupied. As she sorted out the cushions and cleared away the tea things she caught sight of a small, dark shape set against the floor. Upon closer inspection she realized it to be a leaf. It would have had to attach itself to him quite solidly for it to have made the journey from the roof, through his bath and to the sitting room. She held it in her hands, her body turning cold. As she made to leave she tossed the leaf's fragile form into the fire. Its body curled, the fire popped and the door clicked closed.

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><p><strong>AN<strong>: Once again I would like to thank **emuisemu** because whether she realized it or not she totally inspired me to change this chapter. I had about two pages or so written out and it just wasn't coming together. It really wasn't. Originally it was more convoluted: the roof breaks in the storm, areas of the house need to be opened to make space for the servants, a chimney sweep is called. Bah! I hated it. I built up the intro to have something immediate and incredible happen and then the next chapter just seemed like a let down. I logged on to Tumblr to take a bit of a break and **emuisemu** had sent me a note. I can't remember how it was worded, but immediately I said "I have to cut out all this crap". I wanted to make it fun and this idea suddenly popped into my head. BAM! Wheatley crashed through my roof. Imagine my surprise when later today I was reading a review by **Curtisimo** who postulated (jokingly) to this very thing. I wanted to PM you **Curtisimo.** I wanted to PM you and send you all my love and excitement, but I also didn't want to spoil the surprise.

I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! It was hard to get out, but hopefully worth it :)


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Guys, I'm so sorry that this took so long. I had all these other ideas bouncing around in my head and this one just didn't want to be written. This CHAPTER didn't want to be written. I think I have four different versions of this and I finally got this in the direction I wanted to go. I don't know if it's as solid as my other chapters, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Characters were hard to write in this… except Wheatley. Thet guy practicaly lives in my brain now. Blah! :D

Also, as much as I realise the liklihood of Chell or Wheatley being able to read I sort of needed that. Sorry :P

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><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

As it was Mr. Wheatley did not in fact leave the next day; nor did he leave the day after that. When it became apparent that their windblown guest hadn't any money to pay for the damages Miss Gladish's idea of compensation changed to involve a great deal of work on his part with only the barest of civility on hers.

On the first day when she had demanded that he fix the roof he had gone about it in the same manner that he seemed to go about everything else: with a great deal of talk and the certainty that in his time spent (hammer, nails and shingles all in hand) absolutely nothing would be accomplished. It became very apparent that he hadn't even the first notion on how to put together a roof causing his statements about being a roof expert from the night before to fall quite flat although they were suspect to begin with.

The only notable thing which occurred from his scaling the high topped manor was that he had spotted his missing hat and chimney sweeper in the branches of an oak just down the road. He had tried to get her to come outside and help with their retrieval, but Chell had remained indoors and watched from one of the kitchen windows as he scaled the tree himself; his boney knees and elbows sticking out at odd angles as he ungracefully clambered up its branches. Of course once at the top he promptly forgot how to get down and spent a great deal of time calling out for help.

He was an enigma, Chell decided. Not the mysterious kind like the detectives from the Strand or the bandits from the woods. No, he was nothing as aggrandized or spectacular as they, but he was an exception to normality; a puzzle piece with irregular parts. He was clever in everything he did without thought and yet, once applied to something with intent he was as useful as a ship without a sail. It was bewildering to say the least. She sometimes tried to imagine what sort of place could cultivate such a person, but limited as she was in her knowledge of anything outside the house she found it a difficult place to conceive.

Once armed with his old sweeper he was put back to work. This time however Miss Gladish took into consideration his occupation and instructed him to clear the chimneys. Johnson Manor was a very old building and not all of it was entirely in use. There were many rooms which had not seen a human soul for years and consequently had not been properly serviced. Many of the fireplaces in the older sections were undoubtedly stuffed full of decaying nests, branches and other debris.

As for Chell she was instructed to follow Mr. Wheatley about the place and supervise his activity. It was her fault that he was in the house after all and thus, Miss Gladish made it very clear that he was Chell's responsibility. It was a blessing, truthfully, to be given such a task and if Miss Gladish ever expected it, no doubt she would be furious. Making tea and sandwiches for him and sitting in whatever room they happened to find themselves was a relief to the normally hectic scheduling and chores she had to run on any other day. To find herself able to sit for a few minutes, partake in a cup and go throughout the day with a constant conversation at her side was like emerging from a lake she hadn't even known she'd been drowning in. However, for all that she liked Mr. Wheatley she also knew that the time she spent with him was its own sort of unkindness; every interaction tinged with the knowledge that his departure, when it came, would be made worse for the minutes spent in company with him. It would be like returning to that dark, still lake. She catalogued the emotion, pushed it aside and moved on.

Their time together informed her a great deal about Mr. Wheatley. He was, for instance, unmarried and had no children to speak of; he was thirty-four years old and lived in Bristol with a few other sweeps. He had never been to London, but wished to go there someday. He was an orphan and had no recollection of his parents; this perhaps of anything endeared him to her the most.

They spent their days going from fireplace to fireplace. On one particular occasion while he was up one of the stacks she had heard to her dismay a great deal of panicked shouting. When he had come out he seemed to look a little shaken, but grinned wide and said, "Corr, there was a whole nest of birds in her chimney. Nasty!" She noted a few scratches across the length of his nose and he seemed to notice her concern because if it were possible he smiled brighter, jauntily tipping his hat and saying, "Nothing good old Wheatley can't handle." With that and a wink he had been back up the chimney. If the birds caused him anymore trouble she couldn't say, but when he did finally clamber out of the hearth he looked weary and a little worse for wear.

Chell had never realized that cleaning a single chimney could take several hours. She thought about all the work ahead of them and tallied the days in her mind. On the fourth day it became apparent that Mr. Wheatley had done the same.

"Look, luv," he had said while coming out from one of the fireplaces. He was covered in soot, dark smudges of the stuff painting his face which looked worried and hesitant, "you seem the clever sort, whatever Miss Almighty Gladish might think and… well, I have the feeling that I'm going to be here for a very long time."

She could only nod in agreement and he looked unhappy to have his notion confirmed.

"Oh, hmm, Well, on another note: I found something else while I was up there." His sad face brightened instantly as he whipped out a small rectangular object.

On first inspection it looked to be a brick and the idea that he had pulled it from the wall didn't seem so farfetched, but as he spun it in his hands she saw that it was only painted a dull red colour and was not porous. Running lengthwise across its top was a seam. Mr. Wheatley's fingers fumbled over the object before discovering that the seam was the lip of a lid and that the not-brick was actually a box.

He opened it and Chell peered over his elbow to get a better look at its contents.

There were folded papers and small pictures inside and sitting on top was an envelope which had yellowed with age. It was considerably old as it was a handmade envelope and bore no makers marks. The wax seal upon its close was red and startling; it bore the mark of the Rattman family crest.

"What have we here? Oh, who's this then?" His fingers reached past the letter at the top and pulled a picture to the front. It was a small photograph and severely worn, but in it one could make out the image of a child barely old enough to walk and dressed in foreign clothing. The child's dark eyes and hair made it apparent that it wasn't English.

"Hmm, look at that! Odd clothing, bit embarrassing, really. Can you imagine having to go around in that?" He ducked and turned to show her the photo and she found herself level with his pale blue eyes and wide smiling mouth. His glasses (which were speckled with black) slid slightly down his nose as he too seemed to realize how close they were and that she wasn't moving. His smile dimmed and his own gaze locked with hers. It was improper, completely improper, to be so close and to be staring so openly. His ears were growing pink but he wasn't looking away either and his hands seemed to be lamenting the fact that they were full. They fumbled with the photo and the odd box while her own hands (improper, completely not done) reached out and touched the bare back of his large hands before sliding them up to the tips of his fingers. She had meant to pluck the photo from his grip, but as they reached the pinnacle of his digits she hesitated to pull away. Her mind was screaming at her to stop.

"Wha-what's this then, luv?" Mr. Wheatley stuttered, his eyes round and uncertain.

She didn't know. He was babbling, but his eyes traced her features all the same then fell from her eyes to her lips; his tongue unconsciously moistened his own in anticipation. They inched closer; Chell's heart in her throat as their faces tilted. She could feel his warm breath across her face as he uttered everything under the sun, but quietly, very quietly when the distance was but the smallest of measure he uttered breathily, reverently,

"_Tremendous…_"

The spell weaving itself around them was broken abruptly by the door.

It clicked open with no preamble and Mr. Wheatley pulled away, quickly secreting away the odd box and its contents in an inner pocket of his coat. She too pulled away turning to adjust the tea things and scolding herself once more for her rash behaviour. She was becoming less of herself the more time she spent with him and it was a startling notion that she wasn't as disciplined as she had always believed.

Miss Gladish entered the room, her hawkish eyes falling on the two of them and narrowing in displeasure.

"Ah, Miss Gladish!" Wheatley crooned, "so glad to see you. Got some nasty stuff up that chimney there, just telling your girl here that."

"I would tell you that I am glad as well… but I'm not." Her sharp eyes darted between the two of them and Chell looked to Mr. Wheatley. He looked far too guilty and the redness of his ears and cheeks was only intensifying.

Much to Chell's disappointment Miss Gladish was very sharp. Her brows knitted for only an instant before they released and a look of _knowing_ fell over her features.

"Have you been enjoying your company, Mr. Wheatley?" she moved like a predator, as if she was coiling back and preparing to strike. Mr Wheatley seemed oblivious.

"Oh, what? Your girl here? Oh, yes, she's- she's very lovely, doesn't talk though, don't know if you were aware of that, but great company anyways! Oh, and she makes these little sandwiches that hit the spot better than a-"

"Get out."

Mr. Wheatley's ramble came to a stuttering halt.

"Um, sorry?"

"I think you two have spent _plenty _of time together." Mr. Wheatley had looked about to protest, but he backed away at the vicious look taking over Miss Gladish's face, "Do not be so bold! I will not have some moronic, pedestrian fool sniffing around here looking to paw over my things. She is _mine_, sweep, no matter how disgraceful or improper she may be."

Mr. Wheatley puffed out his chest and stood his full height.

"You don't frighten me, lady." He said proudly though his face seemed uncertain on this issue.

"Oh, you should be." And a darker side rose out of nowhere. A look so malicious crossed her face that she hardly appeared human and with it Wheatley was cowed. He began rambling as she approached and with one of her hands she grabbed the large curve of his ear and dragged him to her level. He whimpered as she pulled him across the room. With one flick of her arm she swung him out into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

"I'll deal with that later." She said, turning back to Chell who had watched the whole display slightly incredulous.

Miss Gladish approached her quickly, grabbing Chell's wrist and pulling her arm forward; exposing her fingers still smudged with soot.

"He tried to get you to go outside yesterday." She said cooly. Chell looked up, slightly frightened, but not showing it. "I overheard him. He's a poor influence."

She wanted to cry out that it wasn't his fault, he didn't know and she hadn't gone, so why did it matter? But Miss Gladish roughly threw Chells arm aside and shoved her to the ground. She stumbled backwards and tripped over the hem of her skirt.

"You will be seeing Mrs Turre tonight for your punishment." Miss Gladish stood above her tall and proud, "It has been some time since you've been under the whip, girl. I've missed it." And with that she left Chell in a shameful heap upon the floor.

Chell didn't cry, she didn't think she ever would, but something in her heart gave out. She was alone again; alone, but this time with the knowledge of what it was she was losing. It made the silence of the room all the more wretched.

…

While sleeping in a room which had been repurposed after the incident in the attic Chell was awoken by the barest of shakes; a hand in the darkness startling her awake.

"Shh," she heard above her, "Or well, you know, don't make much noise or anything because obviously, well obviously the whole not speaking thing you have covered."

She panicked and shifted trying to pull away,

"no, no, no, don't worry, it's just me, Mr. Wheatley here to help you… help me. Look, I need you."

Chell took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The moon was shining through the window illuminating the space with the barest of light. Above her she could make out the shape of Mr. Wheatley, his anxious, grinning face not far from her own tired and sleepy one and she felt her heart flip at the sight of him.

Very cautiously she looked around. The other girls seemed to all be sleeping soundly, snores and the sounds of breathing coming from all around, but not one that seemed disturbed or worried that there was currently a man sneaking into a dorm of ladies.

She quickly and quietly got to her feet trying to quell the embarrassment of having Mr. Wheatley once again see her in her nightclothes especially after the events of the last day playing in her mind. She steered him to the door and all the while he pleaded with her not to kick him out. Once she had wrestled him into the hallway (not an easy feat she found) she indicated for him to wait and he did so, wringing his hands. She hurried across the small and cluttered room to fetch some proper clothing. None of the girls stirred.

It took only a few minutes for her to return to him in the hallway where he immediately grabbed hold of her wrist pulling her through the house.

"Come on, follow me," he whispered quite unnecessarily as his grip was iron, "I've got a plan… well, sort of." They wound their way about the place and for the first time in a long time she felt her pulse begin to rise. There was a sensation pulsing faintly in her chest; a sort of exhilaration just on the edge of taking flight.

It was strange the way he directed her. In darkness the house was almost an entirely different entity and the floor plans she thought she knew by heart were altered in some strange and indefinable way. Although she was able to steer him clear of a few hazards, the time was mostly spent with him tugging her in the proper direction.

She could hardly see, but they appeared to be heading towards the main door. Were it anyone else who had awoken her in the night, especially any other man, she would have found herself reluctant to follow their direction; however, she felt safe with Mr. Wheatley and though his intentions for waking her were still unclear she trusted him to have good reason for doing so.

He had instructed her to remain silent, but it seemed to be he who couldn't keep from babbling on as they went, "I have to get out." He said, "I'm going to get out. She can't keep me here, unlawful is what that is; completely in the wrong. I-" Chell pulled him to a teetering stop.

He turned and looked at her as if he only just remembered she was there, "What's wrong, luv?"

He was leaving. He was _escaping._ Her heart was giving-way again. She needed time to think.

Once again Mr. Wheatley demonstrated his amazing ability to read her thoughts because he began to explain himself once more.

"I… I would normally leave like a proper gentleman, but your lady… look, she isn't the nicest is she? I know why you haven't left this place, but, well, I mean, she said you were her property and all but me…" he had let go of her wrist and was busy twiddling his thumbs, "I'm leaving and… I need you to help."

She should go tell Miss Gladish. That was her job as a servant; her duty, but… she _liked_ him. She liked him more than anything and after the events of yesterday (their almost kiss and what had followed) she felt no inclination to do as she was meant. He unwittingly presented to her the illusion of a future which included this sort of feeling blooming in her heart. A future filled with sunshine and song which could happen and which could exist if only she was someone else living some other life. It was a gift even if it left her wanting more.

Her future was set, but his? She knew he had a life he had to get back to: a place where people were missing him and worrying over him. She may not be able to leave, but she could help someone else.

She nodded her head and in the small amount of light trickling in his blue eyes danced.

"Let's go!"

When his hand circled hers again it was warm and welcome.

They forged on. The floorboards when they creaked did so far too loudly and it felt as if a set of eyes were in every shadowed corner watching them as they moved. There was little that Miss Gladish could do to Mr. Wheatley should they be caught. He had truthfully done more than his fair share of work, but what she would do to Chell was worrying. She tried not to think of the remnants of yesterday's punishment still stinging the arch of her back; the fabric of her corset rubbed roughly against her wounds.

Eventually they came to the front door and he stood next to her nervous and shaking while his hands fumbled with the latch. It gave way and the cool night air swept through her hair. It was an intense sensation. Mr. Wheatley hurried out the door and though she felt she should take a moment to revel in this new freedom she had a job to do and she walked past the threshold of the manor knowing the import of her actions even if she showed no jubilation in them; there was a song in her heart loud enough for that.

"Now, here's where I need your help, love." He said twisting his hands around themselves as the gravel crunched underfoot, "See, the plan is I'm going to get a ladder and hop that dreadful gate you lot have down the road there. Should be simple really, just climb the ladder, hop the wall. I'm a particularly good climber so it should be a snap."

Chell was surprised; she hadn't known there was a gate. It must be far down the lane, past the trees and in a deeper section of the woods.

"Now, I bet you're wondering how I came up with this brilliant plan… yes? No? Well, I was over by the main gate today and saw that big ol' lock your Miss Gladish had on it. Nope, can't do a thing with that, I mean… not that I'm rubbish with locks or something. Only an idiot can't pick a lock, but it was a really good lock: big, old, sturdy and… a complicated one so that wasn't going to work, but, _ding_! I got an idea. I saw one of the fellows here dragging about a ladder and thought, 'hold on a second, if I got one of those but you know, _taller_ I could get myself right on over that thing'. Brilliant," he said to himself, "Brilliant idea. One of my best I think."

She nodded along as it seemed a good plan, but why he needed her for it was still very unclear.

"Although, bit of a snag really… went poking around the shed and, well, out of luck on that score because all the ladders in there are too short. So, this, and this is really, just the cleverest part, really, you're going to like this, this is the part where you come in. You can climb up the ladder with me and lift me up onto the wall."

Now with his outlined plan before her it seemed rather terrible. He was _heavy_ and the thought of them both precariously teetering on a ladder was not reassuring, but she hadn't any way to dissuade him from it and so she decided she would go along with it and attempt to come up with something better once they were there.

They hurried to one of the sheds, chose the tallest of the ladders they could find which was a difficult task in the near dark.

Then they set out towards the woods. As they rounded a bend in the lane Chell looked back to see the house blotting out a portion of the sky and a light burning in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She quickened her pace.

The ladder clattered against the wall. He looked up at it with a hopeful expression the moon high above him and shining bright. He was not what most would consider handsome, Chell knew, but in the white of the moonlight and filled with confidence he seemed the most striking man she had ever seen. There was an ache in her heart at the knowledge that tonight she would lose him to the world, but it was accompanied, as always, with her own brand of practicality. Life would go on and so would she.

He climbed the wobbly ladder quickly,

"Here we are, here we are!" he called down, "alright, now, you have to brace yourself down there and then sort of… lift my feet…I think."

There was nowhere for her to brace. She climbed up the ladder below him and urged his feet onto her shoulders. He made some unidentifiable noises , but go the idea rather quickly and she clambered up the last few rungs hoisting his heavy frame up the smooth stone of the grey and sturdy wall.

He wobbled and shook at first, but eventually getting his long arms up over top of the rim. As he lifted himself his feet kicked and she was lucky, once again, to not be hit by their impressive size. As he moved she struggled with him until he finally pulled himself up onto the ledge giving her shoulder a much needed reprieve. Her back was aching.

"I'm up!" he shouted unnecessarily, but so full of pride that she almost smiled, "right, thank you for your help!" he looked down at her and stopped.

Was she really so transparent to him? She could see the stars, could feel the trickle of the breeze across her face. _She could leave with him_. The idea was not a new one, but in her current state it hit her fresh as if it only needed a different setting to make it good. The future was open in front of her and this time the voice of reason which she relied on so heavily, that kept her sane and almost-happy, the one that told her not to put much stock in dreams and the one that had screamed at her as she almost kissed Mr. Wheatley was utterly quiet.

"Come back here!" There was a man down the lane, yelling and shaking a hand above his head.

It was now or never. She reached out to him and he grabbed her arms pulling her the rest of the way up. The ladder was hooked to her foot and after hauling her up he reached for it, preparing to set it on the other side of the wall, but it was too late. The man who had been running down the lane only a moment before was on the other side having opened the gate with a key. There were more voices coming down the lane.

They were trapped.

More people gathered round and some of them called for ladders, but when they came back with the ones from the shed it was apparent that Chell and Wheatley had grabbed the best of the lot. None were tall enough to reach the top of the high, grey wall.

The people below did not seem angry, just confused. Why was Mr. Wheatley trying to escape in the middle of the night and with that odd, foreign girl? They snickered about it and some of the young men called unseemly things up at them. Their escape had become a joke and, worse, she had become an item of ridicule- more so now than she had been in the past. Mr. Wheatley was back to fiddling with his fingers, his embarrassment evident. Although he had spent some time yelling back at the boys he ran out of things to say quite quickly and subsided; sitting on the wall and looking miserable as the occasional rock bounced off his head.

When Miss Gladish did appear she seemed far too happy for Chell's liking.

"I have rung the police." She said, "It seems you two may be up there for some time. If I were you, I would make myself comfortable." Some of the onlookers laughed.

They did indeed wait a very long time. It wasn't until the sun was rising that, out of boredom, Mr. Wheatley pulled from his coat that same odd box he had found the day before and begun rummaging through its contents. Chell sat beside him and, from this new vantage point she could see a few other things which had escaped her notice. There was an old quill sitting along one of the sides and a small jar of ink, no larger than a thimble, clattering beside it. He unfolded the paper, leaving the sealed envelope at the bottom of the box.

Her eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

His fingers patted at her arm, but she hardly felt them. She was too busy staring at the most unlikely of documents to ever be found in a chimney. The yellowed paper was thick and strong and its ink, still solid and dark, declared that it was, in fact, the deed to the whole of Johnson Manor.

Chell tore her eyes from the paper to Miss Gladish and it was easy to tell by the mirrored look of disbelief that even from this distance she knew exactly what it was.

"Don't you dare do anything with that paper!" she cried and Mr. Wheatley was startled out of his shock, a cross look creasing his brow.

"Or what?" he called down, his long legs bracing against the wall as he leaned forward to shout at her.

"You don't realise how valuable that paper is."

"Oh, valuable is it? That so? Well it looks like it's in _my_ hands so I can _do_ with it whatever I like."

Miss Gladish gave a feral growl.

Suddenly Mr. Wheatley smiled, a smugness that didn't suit his features pulling at his lips.

"Oh, but how about this!" he cried in mock surprise, "Well, this doesn't look signed, does it? Nope, not a signature to be seen on this old thing. How unfortunate. Looks like that late husband of yours left you out to dry, hmm? Well, I've got a good ol' quill right here, little bit of ink."

"No…" for the first time in her life Chell saw Miss Gladish's features fall in concern. She was certainly angry, but a frightened look was dancing behind her eyes.

The other people still loitering around were looking on in confusion at the display.

"No? Oh, common luv, you're going to have to try harder than that!" With only a little trouble with the thimble sized jar he was dipping his pen and flourishing his signature across the bottom. It was a shaky thing with little practice.

He handed the papers to Chell who looked at them without comprehension. Right beside his signature was another space. A small printed word right beside which read, 'witness'.

With just this one thing the whole of Johnson Manor would be his and she could be free.

She looked at him and though that unattractive smugness was still there he was smiling at her, urging her to sign it.

"Don't sign it!" Miss Gladish yelled.

"Yes, sign it!" Mr. Wheatley urged again, slightly annoyed.

The police were coming down the lane, their ladder in tow.

"Sign it."

"Don't sign it."

_"Sign it!"_

_"Don't!"_

_"DO!"_

As the sun finally broke over the trees Chell pressed the quill against the heavy sheaf of paper and _signed._


End file.
